I don’t remember my hero. The hero of Cedar street. He is quite forgotten in my tapestry of life. The stories squashed and hidden as so who knows if this forgotten memory, this forgotten hero, this forgotten man is real or imagined.
My hero of Cedar Street, is as black as spades. His English acquired through intelligence. His eight other languages through sheer brilliance. I remember him trying to teach me, whilst I sat on the lawn he weeded and he chatted to his friends across the fence but to no avail, I was not gifted like he.
His room was a Pandora’s box. A box room, attached to the outside of the house, in the backyard. The backyard had his room with a bright yellow tin door and next his toilet and shower, and then the laundry, our laundry, not his. His home was in the backyard with the…
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